Homecoming
by Mickey Sixx
Summary: The Doctor relives a moment from Rose's past. [Based on the poem 'Homecoming' by Simon Armitage, which will be on my profile][Slight DocRose, can be Nine or Ten]


**Author's note:** This was inspired by a poem in my Anthology I had a while ago. When I found the book again sometime in the first series of new!Who, and I realised that this poem was perfect for this fandom.

The poem is _Homecoming_ by Simon Armitage, which will be on my profile page, should anyone want to read it. :D

Enjoy!

* * *

It's cold. But then, you expect that for January. The wind is getting up now, blowing the dead leaves around in swirls and twirls. Almost like mini-tornadoes. It's also midnight, and I watch the door on the third floor. Just one door; just that particular door. I watch, and I wait. My eyes pick up the movement of the door opening and closing, though I see no-one there. Yet. 

Two minutes. That's how long it took you to get to the bottom. You run across the estate, all pink and brown with your pj's and your hair. You must have been freezing, but I doubt that you cared. Something as trivial as the weather wouldn't have bothered you, especially in the foul mood you were in.

I remember you told me about this night. You're mum had brought that new jacket for you the day before. You told me it was expensive, and she didn't really have the money for it, but she bought it anyway. You'd been pining over it for weeks, and she told you she couldn't stand the moping anymore.

You wore it to school that day. This day. Today. All your mates were ooh-ing and ahh-ing over it. You were the most stylish girl there that day. Today. You hung it up in the cloakroom, with your bag hanging underneath it. You were itching to wear it again; couldn't wait until the bell tolled the end of school. When the time finally came and you were dashing towards the door, the teacher pulled you back, wanting to talk to you about something. You said you didn't remember what because all that was going through your mind was getting to your new jacket. You hopped from one foot to another, impatience showing through. You agreed to what the teacher was saying, because it would get you to your jacket faster if you just went along with it.

Then she said you could go, and you couldn't get out of the room fast enough. Racing down the hall to the cloakroom only to find, to your horror, that no-one was there. And your brand new canary-yellow jacket was no longer on the hook, but on the floor; crumpled, muddy and scuffed by various different pairs of shoes. You said that you swore you'd stopped breathing then. Shock, I expect. The first thing that came to your mind was the jacket, you told me. The next would be how badly your mum would shout at you, even though logically, it wasn't your fault.

And shout she did. You said that you'd never seen her so angry before. You stood there, in floods of tears as she screamed blue murder. She blamed you, of course, and you shout back that it wasn't your fault. She was too angry to see your side of the story. You were sent to bed early; seething at the unfairness of it all.

Which brings us back to now. Then. You slipped out the door and ran. You told me that you planned it all out. You were going to run away, and then your Mum would come looking for you, sobbing her heart out over her missing daughter. You only made it to the phone box down the road. I watched you; I waited by my own phone box and watched. Strands of dark, wispy hair had come loose from the French-braid (because you were brown, not blonde then) and the wind was blowing them around your face. You stand there, looking at the phone box as though it should ring. But it doesn't.

You lean against the glass door and sigh, your breath lost on the wind. You told me that you stood there for 10 minutes, the cold wind slowly chasing the anger and the upset away. I watched you, saw the change of emotions on your face. I smiled to myself; you were a clever girl then, and nothing has changed. You're a clever girl now. Although it will be twelve years or so before we meet.

You re-think your plan. You decide that maybe it isn't such a good idea after all. You didn't really want to see your Mum cry, any more than you wanted to run away. You push yourself from the glass and start the walk back towards the estate. The harsh light of the street lamp casts an orange glow across a section of the square. It bathes you as you walk across it, head down and arms crossed tightly across your chest. You look up, and there's someone waiting for you by the fire exit type door that's at the foot of the stairs. You told me that it was your grandfather. He saw you run and waited for you by the door, knowing that you would come back. He hugged you, telling you that he'd talk to your Mum for you. You smiled then, lost in the memory of him. It would be four years after that when he dies.

I smile and return to you now. Just as I left you five minutes ago. Asleep in your bed in your mum's flat. The flat you had left sixteen years before.

* * *

Review, anyone? Constructive Crit very welcome! 


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